


Dean steps out of the shower, still dripping

by rGo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Gen, Infidelity, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 00:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15497904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rGo/pseuds/rGo
Summary: Love endures all adversity, save neglect.-=-As always, subject to moody revisionism.Comments or criticisms encouraged.I love the feedback.





	Dean steps out of the shower, still dripping

-=-

Dean steps out of the shower, still dripping, onto the heated tile floor. 

He looks down at the tile floor. “What a pain in the ass that was” he grumbles under his breath recalling how he and Sam battled over the floor. Sam wanted a heated tile floor, Dean wasn’t too keen on what that was going to entail. But here it is, like so many other things in the House that Dean built. Heated tiles, bamboo floors, soundproof walls for Sam's study … every detail of this house. All of it for … 

Yawning he leans back and stretches his shoulders. A jerky twist at the waist elicits a volley of gunfire followed by a satisfied "ahhhh". 

He pats his soft belly (maybe a little more than before, but still trim), “Yeah I still got it”. He gives his cock a jostle and another, just to wake him up “Still got the prize too”. He chuckles and grins, pleased with himself until he catches his reflection in the mirror.

He steps closer to the mirror, scrutinizing the face in the glass. He frowns. Hair greyed, starting to thin … He grimaces prodding at deepening crow’s feet, and deeper still frown lines, from a lifetime of scowling, even noticeable laugh lines (signs of the better years). He picks over scars, that one over his left eye, his right temple, his cheek, the tiny one his upper lip.

“Not so bad for 50” he shrugs, “I guess.” He gets his shaving kit from the cabinet and sets to lathering his face. Shaving is good thinking time (if there’s ever a good time for thinking). 

Alone. Alone at 50. It’s not fair. For the first time in his entire life, he was well and truly alone. 

He stands quietly, scraping away the scruffy grey stubble. “How could you leave me like this?” He whispers to no one. “A year Sam … “ He feels the knot in his throat rising and abandons that thought right away, back to the task at hand. Dean inspects his clean-shaven face in the mirror and tries his best grin and wink, “yeah ….” He sighs, shoulders deflating.

Maybe the kids were right. Maybe it is time, time to get back. They were handling this so much better than he was. Naturally.. “They’re the strongest people I know” Dean muses. Pride brought a light to his face and honest smile to his lips and for a moment … just a moment, the very unfamiliar feeling of hope.

The kids were the best to ever happen to him. Or Sam. Thinking of the kids brought him that very particular delight, a carbonated bubble of joy that works its way from his heart, cracking over his lips in a great smile… sometimes even a laugh. He was full-fledged cheesing, thinking about the day the adoption was official and he and Sam brought home their new family: Jacob Michael, age 13 and sister in tow, Emily Ann, age 11 (and a half!). 

His newfound lightheartedness carried him through another cup of coffee and cleaning up the breakfast dishes. He sat down at the kitchen bar to finish his “last” cup of coffee.

-=-

“Maybe I’ll run down to the diner. Today’s produce delivery, I need to inspect that a little closer” That last delivery of veggies wasn’t to Dean’s liking, “They weren’t fresh, they weren’t even crispy.” he complained to no one in particular, or to anyone for that matter. 

The diner had been Dean’s breath and blood since they opened it three years ago. He had enjoyed cooking and chatting up the customers far more than the tedious business of it, but as another year of debt accumulated, Sam gave him the “man up” speech. Dean swallowed the pill and began in earnest actually “running” the place. Last year he turned a modest profit and still managed to occasionally get behind the grill to sling a burger or two. 

Recently, though, it had become more than just his work (obsession), it had become his haven from the wreckage of his life. Somewhere he desperately needed, though his constant presence was starting rub his employees the wrong way.

He glances at the calendar and sighs, “No.. delivery is tomorrow. “

… and there … there his joviality dimmed and died

He notices yesterday’s paper and feigns interest in the headlines. Checks the weather, then the obituaries (morbid habit, I suppose), on a lark he looks at his horoscope; “ there’s something you missed in previous days that resurfaces for attention. Tie up loose ends and make meaningful changes”. 

He gives a dismissive huff, “yeah right.” 

He pulls in a breath to bolster some reserve. Frowning, he surveys the kitchen carefully. He notes a scratch in the cabinet door. A little buff should take it out. That dishwasher never got fixed and the bulb in pantry needs replaced. 

Distract and deny. 

It’s not much of a coping mechanism, but it’s what he’s got. And he so desperately needed the distraction, working hard at avoiding the knowledge that today was Wednesday-- and Sam’s shift at the hospital would be over at 11:00 AM. And that they’d normally meet for lunch, then come home for some “desert.”

And there it was. He thought it. Can’t deny it now. He swallowed that sharp dry lump in his throat and followed it with the last of the bitter coffee. But it was no use, already his breath was hitching, already biting his lower lip. He sniffed and drew a great deep breath.

He exploded up from the chair, sweeping his arm across the bar, sending everything crashing to the floor, shattering and bouncing.

“God Damn it Sam! Why’d you have to go and leave me?” He roared. Roared into his --ha, he’d spent last fifteen years rebuilding to Sam’s exacting specifications), but his now-- enormous, cavern of a house. As the last echo paled, from the furthest corner of the house, came the phenomenally deafening reply: Silence.

And Dean couldn’t take that answer. He slid to the floor, sitting in a lump, defeated by an answer that he already knew but couldn’t understand.

Shoulders bobbing; breath in short sips; his remaining lung clawing for air.  
Tears already spotting the hardwood floor, “I don’t understand Sam … “

Silence. 

A great pain-filled growling howl… trembling, trailing into a sorrowful whimper .. short staccato sobs of a hurt boy. A long, rumbling moan of ache and futility, Dean Winchester was wounded. Angels and demons alike bowed their heads, ashamed of their own impotence. 

There is no balm in Gilead.

A year’s worth of pain and loneliness and guilt, of anger and resentment and hate. Months of battling the loathsome, vile, poisonous feelings erupting from that dark, murderous, filthy place inside him. How many weeks of begging and pleading and bargaining? Twelve solid months of pretending he’s fine when he’s not alone. Pretending it will be OK .. and he’ll keep busy with the house. Birthdays and holidays and Christmas … lying, staying cheerful, “for the kids”. Another little lie, this one to himself.

“God Damn it to fucking Hell … “ Dean pounds the floor and kicks over the kitchen bar-stool, “I fucking hate you, Sam, I fucking Hate You!!” His Anger Shield buckles and he’s left sitting on the floor quietly sobbing.

So he sits.  
And sobs.  
And thinks.  
And smolders.

“Fuck you Sam...” It flies from his clenched teeth. A tiny dart of anger and resentment. 

“Fuck you Sam!” The dagger bared, sharp with conviction.

“FUCK YOU SAM!!” There it is-- the roar. Real anger, real hate, real venom. Real pain.  
“FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU -- I HATE YOU” as the last tantrum of his hurt burns out.

-=-

“Ya know Sam … I just don’t get it.” Dean lifts himself, hand on his knee to help himself up from the floor, a slight grimace at the whispered groan from the effort.

“All our lives. All our lives -- Together. Forty-five fucking years Sam, I spent forty-five years with you. You. Every day, every night, everything in between”

Dean makes an irritable grunt as he bends to sweep up the broken mug.

“EVERYTHING in between, Sam. I lived and died and lived again for you. I’ve faced God and Lucifer and every lackey in between, and spit at them all for you. I’ve taken bullets for you, I’ve lost a lung for you, I’ve been cut and hacked and burned and bruised. I’ve broken everything in my body for you … “

“Except my heart ... “ 

“Which you’ve broken for me.”

Dean pauses over the sink, gazing out to the backyard where Jacob Michael and Emily played … not so many years ago. 

“Dad come out and swim”, that’s Jacob Michael’s voice, “the water’s not c..c..c..cold.”

“yeah Dad don’t be chicken”, Em squeaks, “Where’s Sam?” she queries

“Probably still at work...”, Jacob replies irritably. 

It might only have been eight years, but Dean packed it with birthday parties, barbecues, pool-parties for the kids’ friends. Even a pony (no Sam, it’s rented) for Emily’s 12th birthday. 

“I guess I’m grateful you waited until the kids were old enough to understand.” Dean rolls his eyes. That’s true, but in the most begrudging way. 

Jacob is 21 now, studying to be an electrician. Emily Ann is .. “let’s see … Jacob’s 21 .. in July.. so .. Emily Ann’s 19”, muttering, “… and a half!” Dean smiles. Em's away at college now. She wants to be a doctor … like Sam.

“I mean, what? You just decided one day to check out on us? Or was it just me?”  
And that was it, wasn’t it? The question, the last tattered restraint on Dean’s composure. Thick murky emotions clouded overhead, rumbling and rolling, the air crackling with angry electric. If Jacob and Em were here they’d run for their rooms. They knew how their Dad’s bad moods were … sudden as a thunderstorm, and just as dangerous. 

That hard twisting knot was working its way out of Dean’s chest. Placed there a year ago, kept there with grief and pride … and shame. Dean stood stone still. Everything inside him swirling, tightening, focusing into burning hot bullet lodged firmly inside his chest … but not for long.

The hot thick air jittering and nervous, pregnant, pent-up and waiting to rupture. 

Fell cold. Instantly. 

The tempest fell dead to the floor. Petrified, uncaring and soulless as granite.

Dean remained motionless, tears drying on his cheeks. He pressed his lips together in a small frown and drew a resolute breath.

 

“I wish you **_were_** dead, Sam.” 

Blunt, ugly, and savagely true. 

“I wish you were dead.”


End file.
